“I’m still not convinced what you’re saying is true,” Porter begins, “but if it is, are you the person best equipped to help her? This talent you say she has sounds like something that should be studied, verified . . .”
“If I was primarily concerned about my own self-interest, I certainly would have written Anna’s case up in a psychiatric journal. But do you really think she could have remained anonymous? That there wouldn’t have been a constant battery of tests and trials to convince skeptics like yourself? Anna would have been turned into a sideshow. She had no one to protect her interests. Personally, I didn’t think throwing a six-year-old child to the wolves was ethical.” She puts a decided emphasis on that last word as she sits back down, her eyes still locked on Porter’s.
He breaks the stare by glancing to the right, pausing for a few seconds when his gaze reaches the mirror. His shoulders tighten and his mouth twitches slightly on one side. It feels almost as though he can see me. I sit forward, ready to bolt into the reception area, but then he looks back toward the desk.
Kelsey lets him sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment longer and then continues. “I know you expected me to say something very different this afternoon, Mr. Porter, but I’m not going to lie to you. Anna made the decision to approach you, and she didn’t make it lightly. Most of the spirits she picks up plead with her to get a message to their spouse, their children, somebody—it seems that only those who have some sort of regret or quest stick around. Anna was pretty certain how you’d react, but she felt she had a moral obligation to at least try, given what Molly told her about the circumstances of her death.”
“She’s going to have to give me something more to go on here, Doctor. You might be convinced, but I’m sure as hell not. If Molly’s in Anna’s head, why wouldn’t she let me talk to her?”
Kelsey shrugs one shoulder. “Anna’s a smart girl. It would have been beyond foolish to let Molly surface in a downtown café, without anyone she knows as a witness. Strong emotion is a very powerful motivator, and Molly’s been an exceptionally determined guest. This wouldn’t be the first time that Anna’s had to fight—and fight hard—to get her own mind back from a hijacker, so you can hardly blame her for wanting some control over the circumstances of your . . . conversation.”
Porter nods once and then looks pointedly at the mirror, a smug smile on his face. His eyes sweep past me and settle a few feet to the left of my chair. It’s a good guess—that’s where I’d have been if I hadn’t tilted my chair back against the wall. “Anna, you can turn off the speaker and join us in here now.”
Molly’s not happy with the names I’m thinking about her grandfather as I sit up and grab my backpack, but I ignore her. Even though I have nothing to be embarrassed about, that doesn’t stop the blush from rising to my cheeks as I walk back to the couch.
“I was a detective for over twenty years, ladies. I’ve seen more than one observation mirror in my time.” He swivels the chair in my direction and crosses his hands on his belly, leaning back.
Face it, Molly. Your grandfather is an insufferable jerk.
I kick my black flats under the end table and toss my backpack on top of them, then sit on the couch, legs tucked under me.
My eyes dart over to Kelsey, whose expression is sympathetic and a bit nervous. She has a pretty good idea how much it costs me to give up control. But there’s no sense putting it off. I suck in my breath and wait for the slide, the slipping, slightly sick sensation that marks my demotion from driver to passenger.
You have ten minutes, Molly. Make the most of it.
I can still see the office, still hear the slight whirr of the heating system. I feel the handle of my coffee cup against my palm as Molly puts it on the end table, sloshing a few drops of warm coffee on my skin. My legs unfold, at Molly’s command. I feel the carpet under my sock-clad feet, and the slight thump as my knees land in front of Porter’s chair. I feel the tears begin to run down my face and the polyester fabric of Porter’s pants when my cheek touches his knee, his body going rigid as he tries to pull away. I feel all of these things, but it’s as though I’m dipped in plastic and there’s a barrier between my mind and the sensations.
A voice very much like my own is coming from my mouth, but the words are a jumble at first, exploding like they’ve been pent up under pressure. A deep breath, and then her speech becomes more coherent. “Pa, it’s me. It’s Molly. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wanted to come back to you and Mimmy. I was scared, but Mama needed me with her. She was better when I was there. And she said Lucas would never hurt us—you know how she was about him. She loved him even after she found out what he was into. She thought he was good underneath, that she could change him. But she was so wrong about him, Pa.”
Porter opens his mouth, but no words come out. His face is ashen, his eyes glued to my hand, which is clutching the leg of his pants.